


the life of all the rest of the world

by marschallin



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Botany, Canon Era, Drinking & Talking, Friendship, Gen, Medical School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 23:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/pseuds/marschallin
Summary: In his first year of medical school, Combeferre chooses between passions.





	the life of all the rest of the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bobcatmoran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobcatmoran/gifts).

**June 1827.**

“This is sow-thistle, is it not?”

_ “Cicerbita alpina, _Monsieur Combeferre. But yes, it is known by some as the blue-sow thistle.”

The young man made a note in his portfolio. He was quiet and serious-minded, and he never plucked a flower to brighten his lapel, or to give to a pretty passerby; those qualities inclined Jussieu to be fond of him. 

Jussieu was seventy-nine years old and had been teaching botany since before most of his students’ parents were born. He fantasized about a day when he might explain the reproductive structure of the African orchid without a single teenaged boy guffawing in the background. Of course, his position was a great honor, but except for the odd genius, the actual work was quite tedious. Monsieur Combeferre was, he thought, the odd genius.

“Now Monsieur Combeferre, can you tell me what tree sits to the right of your sow-whistle?”

There was an awkward silence while he considered, and a few boys raised their hand to be called on next. It was an almost painfully simple question, and Jussieu felt something clench in his chest to think that perhaps Monsieur Combeferre would not know.

But no, the young man rallied, raised his his face from his portfolio and said, in a grave and low voice: _ “Si Dieu le veut, un malade, rien que de toucher au sureau, se porte mieux.” _

There was some assorted chuckling, much to Jussieu’s chagrin. He raised his hand to silence the class.

“May you all remember the wisdom of your ancestors as well as Monsieur Combeferre. Quite right, _ Sambucus nigra_. The European elder. And a worthy saying, with much truth behind it.” Jussieu gave the class what he thought was a serious and paternal look. “Now, let us note the black berries. Ingested in significant quantities, the seeds provoke severe bradycardia. Monsieur Pasquet, will you be so kind as to explain how that might present in a patient?”

* * *

After class, Combeferre remained by the elder tree, thoughtfully running his fingertips along the trunk. It occurred to Jussieu that he seemed several years older than most of his classmates. Far from seventeen, he might have been twenty-five. Perhaps he was. Perhaps what Jussieu had called genius was only the maturity of the settled grown-up. 

“My mother used to say that,” Jussieu said gently. “_Si Dieu le veut, _and all.” 

Combeferre startled a bit at being spoken too, but recovered quickly, pressing his spectacles farther up his nose and nodding. “Yes,” he said. “Mine as well.”

Both professor and student paused, desperately trying to think of what to say next that would minimize the inherent awkwardness of their interaction. Jussieu chanced upon an idea first.

“You have a talent for botany,” he said. Flattery usually brought one’s guard down, and indeed Combeferre flushed and shook his head. 

“I don’t know, but I enjoy it very much. I kept a herbarium as a boy, but the climate is so different in Paris that I find I do not recognize even the common weeds here.” 

“You grew up so far away?” Was that a note of homesickness Jussieu detected? He was determined to delve deeper. 

“Yes, near Gap, all the way to the east.”

“So it is no wonder then that you recognized the humble _ Cicerbita alpina.” _A thought occurred to Jussieu. “Say, if you are free next Tuesday and would not be too bored listening to a few old men discuss flowering shrubs-- Come over for supper. Here, give me your pencil and I will write my address.”

Combeferre wordlessly handed over his portfolio and pencil. “I hope I will not intrude--”

“Nonsense, you will be a fine addition. Bring along your old herbarium if you like, or a friend. While I flatter myself that such gatherings are educational, I must admit that they are not particularly lively.” 

* * *

The evening of the supper found Combeferre frowning at his reflection in his shaving mirror while Joly tightened the lacings of his waistcoat. 

“It is perfectly respectable,” Joly said, in a tone of voice that made that sound rather like an insult. His own waistcoat was dotted with pink roses and was both more ostentatious and more flattering than Combeferre’s simple plaid. This rankled Combeferre who felt that, as he was the one with the invitation, he ought to be the better dressed. 

“I’m nervous,” Combeferre told his reflection. His face, owlish and freckled, looked nervously back at him. 

“Even if you make an ass of yourself, there’s no permanent harm. Nobody very grand will be there; there’s no money in botany.” This was said affectionately, though Joly pushed Combeferre out of the way so he might adjust his own cravat in the mirror. 

“Perhaps I would rather be a botanist than a surgeon.”

“Blast it, Combeferre. You’ve already tried engineering and found it wanting, _ and _ journalism. Besides, I am relying on you to split a corpse with me come winter.” Joly squeezed Combeferre’s arm and stuck his hat on his head firmly. “There. You will have a pleasant meal and dull company, present company excluded, and then you will go home and study your anatomy notes because _ you are going to be a surgeon. _”

Combeferre only smiled indulgently as he led Joly out into the hall. His thoughts were full of _ Sambucus nigra. _His mother had tried to cure his weak eyes with elderflower water; it did not work, but he remembered the sweet smell. In class, they learnt of the properties of the bark, the pithy center of the branch, the berries, but Jussieau had not mentioned the flowers at all. But why should the potent mechanism be limited to one part of the tree? And why was the potency distilled to the point of poison in one area and not in the other? He was eager to share his questions. 

“So much of medicine is the study of the unfixable,” he mused to himself and in his reverie almost tripped over an uneven patch of cobblestone. “But _ plants _ \-- This is something that does _ something. _”

“How elegantly phrased,” said Joly, taking him by the arm to steady his walk.

“Perhaps I am better suited to pharmacy after all.”

“Your mother would kill you.”

Combeferre conceded this with a wave of his hand. “You may laugh all you like, but I enjoy botany best of all my courses.”

“I do not laugh, though I gently remind you that _ everyone _likes botany best at first. It is out of doors. You are hardly the first student to prefer sunshine and flowers to gangrene and rot.” Joly adopted the paternal, second-year medical student sort of tone that always made Combeferre consider shoving him into a passing mud puddle. “I don’t doubt that you have some talent for herbs and whatnot, mind you.”

“What generosity. How lucky I am to have such a complimentary companion…” 

They continued this bickering for some time, until they stopped in front of an austere brick building with flower pots in the window, just visible through the lace curtains. Only one window was illuminated by flickering golden lamplight. They paused and looked at each other, daring the other to approach first. Combeferre shrugged and held up the piece of paper that Jussieu had written on; the address was correct. Joly raised an eyebrow. Defeated, Combeferre squared his shoulders and rapped on the front door. 

Almost immediately the door opened and a man with a long white beard appeared before them. He seemed as if one strong breeze would knock him dead; he was swaying a little on his feet. Joly gaped. 

“I was only on my way out…” And, with surprising force, he pushed both Joly and Combeferre aside and strode down the street. The door remained open and Combeferre blinked at the dark interior, wishing for a moment he had stayed at the Polytechnique, where such things did not happen. Joly nudged him with his cane. 

“Why am I always going first?” He grumbled, inching his way inside as if he were trespassing on sacred ground.

“_You _ have the _invitation _,” Joly said in a song-song approximation of Combeferre. 

There were both interrupted by Jussieu’s booming tenor: “Who’s there? Another guest? Come, come!”

The young men followed the voice into a dimly lit dining room, where a collection of very old men were huddled around a mahogany table. Combeferre could just make out Jussieu in the firelight. 

“Ah, Monsieur Combeferre! We have been eagerly awaiting you and your friend--?”

“Monsieur Joly. I was in your class last year.”

However Jussieu only looked at Joly in confusion. He evidently did not remember this particular student. “You are at the medical school? Wonderful! Please, sit, sit. We have only just begun-- Marie-Josephine, please serve our new guests.” He motioned at a sickly looking maid to come closer, and Combeferre and Joly, both a little overwhelmed, settled into their seats. Neither had ever seen their professor so lively; evidently he only came alive in the company of men of his own generation. 

Important in Joly’s reckoning, was the presence of two women, difficult to make out from a distance in the evening gloom. One was old, clearly a wife if not sister of the assembled gentlemen. The other, almost entirely faded into a corner, was young and very pretty. 

Introductions were given, none of which Joly paid attention to except for that of the young woman, Mademoiselle Amaryllis Deleuze. While Combeferre introduced himself politely, he did not quite give these women the attention Joly thought they deserved, and he regretted heartily that they were seated at the opposite end of the table from them. 

“We have been listening to Mabeuf explain the cultivation of indigo,” explained one guest with enormous white sideburns. 

“Quite,” said Joly, taking a sip of wine as soon as it was offered to him.

However dull Joly might have found the cultivation of indigo, he was pacified by the quality and quantity of the food served. He ate and drank much and spoke little, as the conversation invariably centered on plants and neither Mademoiselle Amaryllis or her companion, Madame Jussieu, spoke a word. In contrast, Combeferre hardly touched his food, though he also remained silent. He was listening intently, and his glasses made his eyes look much larger, awestruck by the conversation, almost feverish. 

When the plates were cleared away and the women excused themselves, and the lacquer box of cigars brought out, Joly turned to Combeferre and made an exaggerated sign of being tired, but Combeferre was enraptured by a description of the Egyptian papyrus, given by some retired army officer. 

“And might we revive the old Egyptian practice of using it for paper?” Combeferre was neglecting his cigar terribly and Joly longed to liberate it from his grip. 

The old officer guffawed and shook his head. “If you can find the process for doing so, you’ll be a rich man, though I have heard that they’ve had success growing papyri in Louisiana.”

“But perhaps we might breed a varietal that is suited to French soil-- As Monsieur Mabeuf is attempting with the indigo plant.” 

Mabeuf, who was perhaps the most toothless and shabby of all the assembled toothless and shabby old men, smiled at this. He did not smoke, but watched them all with a distracted sort of benevolence. Joly suddenly felt very sorry for him, and regretted his earlier impatience. 

The conversation continued much as it had before until they were all standing and moving to the parlour. Joly lost sight of Combeferre in the crowd of balding heads, which was not too alarming as he immediately found Mademoiselle Amaryllis, who was playing a rather plaintive song on the pianoforte. She did not remember his name, to both their embarrassment, but they were soon acquainted again and began to speak of Schiller under the watchful eye of her father.

* * *

Combeferre, meanwhile, had taken Mabeuf for a walk through the garden. The air was curiously chilled for September, though Mabeuf did not mind. 

“All that tobacco and coal-fire suffocates me,” he said cheerfully, examining one of Jussieu’s apple trees with a spotted but firm hand. “But what fine linen! And the food! Monsieur Jussieu is an excellent host, is he not? Now look at this, Monsieur, at these fruits. Small, would you say? I agree. I am working on a varietal of pear thrice the size of this.” 

“I should be keen to see such a thing,” Combeferre said graciously. “There are apples twice this size near my home, in the Alps.”

“The Alps? But you must have many of the same flora as the Pyrenees. _ Circerbita alpina, _ for example, also grows along our borders to the west.” In the darkness, Mabeuf did not notice that all the blood had drained from Combeferre’s face. 

“I had a lesson on the sow-thistle only last week,” Combeferre mused, half in a whisper. 

“You have recently come to Paris, then? Newly sprung from the familial nest?”

It had been some years since Combeferre came to Paris but as he still occasionally found himself lost in a maze of alleyways, he did not yet consider himself a native. It seemed simpler to ignore his previous spree at the Polytechnique and _ Le Constitutionnel. _Anyway, such things were hardly relevant to his current life.

“Yes, I am new here.”

“Any family close?”

Combeferre shook his head, thinking of his brother in Grenoble and his half-brother in Digne. “None. But my friends…” He trailed off.

“They can be a sort of family. You wish to be a doctor?”

“Surgeon.” 

“That is very well. A fine living.”

Combeferre smiled. “There is progress to be made.”

“Ah, yes.”

They fell silent, though there was no sense of awkwardness between them. Mabeuf was completely fascinated by Jussieu’s fruit trees and seemed to have no need of human company when such agriculture was present. It was a quality Combeferre admired and was rather envious of. 

“What fertile soil Jussieu has found in Paris,” Mabeuf remarked. “I rather envy him. My churchyard is not so well.”

“Churchyard?” Combeferre longed to pluck an apple; he regretted his earlier lack of appetite.

“I am the churchwarden at Saint-Sulpice. It is not far.”

In truth, Combeferre had not heard of such a place and only attended Mass on Christmas and Easter. Still, he managed to look inquisitive without looking oblivious. “Ah.”

“It is a fine living.” It was what Mabeuf had said of medicine. Combeferre had the impression that Mabeuf judged all livings equal, with perhaps an exception for the executioner and king. This was a fancy, and Combeferre assumed it was brought on by a too light supper and some strong wine. Again he wished for an apple, small though they were.

“I imagine you have an excellent garden.” 

“My pears do what they can with what they are given.”

This, to Combeferre, was the peak of wisdom.

“And the elder tree? Do you cultivate it? It can be used for influenza, and it is said that it may strengthen one’s vision.” It spilled out of Combeferre before he quite knew what he was saying; he thought perhaps he ought to have repeated the saying one more time._ Si Dieu le veut, un malade, rien que de toucher au sureau, se porte mieux… _All he did was repeat sayings, songs, bits of poems that he only have remembered. In the garden, suddenly, he hated himself. Too old, and always hanging behind. He touched an apple and pressed his nails into it, puncturing the skin and letting the juice run down his palm. Mabeuf did not see this. 

“The elder has its applications…” Mabeuf put his forefinger to his lips as he considered. “It is not my speciality; it grows freely without need of a dedicated horticulturist.”

“I suppose.” 

Inside the house, Joly had convinced Amaryllis to give him a turn on the piano and was playing one of the more popular English dances. In the garden, the off-key trilling was audible, if muffled. 

“It is so loud,” Mabeuf said sadly. “I enjoy these suppers, but I am always happy to be home to my pears and my peace.”

Combeferre smiled. “You enjoy being a churchwarden, then? It must be a very peaceful life.”

“It is a useful job. I have always felt that I must be useful. Indigo is a useful thing to cultivate, certain to make a fortune.”

The music shifted from a quadrille to funereal Beethoven; they both glanced back at the house. There was a cool breeze, and Combeferre wiped his hand on his trousers while Mabeuf was looking away.

“I should be going,” said Combeferre. Now that his sour thoughts had dissipated, he felt more than a little silly for mutilating an apple. He held out his arm for Mabeuf and led him inside. He imagined life as a churchwarden, a life spent ordering fresh candles and fussing over incense, listening to the choir practice in the early mornings… He would keep a garden like Mabeuf, only he would grow elder trees and examine their blossoms under a microscope. Yes, it would be a peaceful sort of life; yet even as he envied Mabeuf for that peace, part of him shied away from it instinctively. 

He knew that even as a churchwarden he would keep pillowcases of cartridges in the wardrobe and seditious pamphlets mixed in with his monographs. 

In the parlor, Joly was standing awkwardly by the door while Amaryllis pressed the piano keys with peculiar, almost venomous force. Mabeuf noticed none of this; he was intent on finding Jussieu to compliment his soil. Combeferre felt a little claustrophobic and touched Joly on the arm, making motions that they ought to go.

* * *

They met Bahorel on the way back to the Latin Quarter and were thus treated to drinks and felt obligated to treat Bahorel in turn. Combeferre ordered some stew and so finally had an evening meal. He ate slowly and, against his usual habit, let Bahorel refill his glass repeatedly. 

By the time they left the cafe, Joly and Combeferre were walking arm-in-arm not out of affection, but necessity. Both were finding it rather difficult to use their limbs in a coordinated and dignified manner. 

“She was a Romantic.” That was Joly’s explanation for the disagreement with Amaryllis. 

“I thought you were a Romantic too? I cannot keep up with these new groups and classifications.” 

Joly rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “You needn’t speak like my grandfather; I have spent far too much time this evening being condescended to by geriatrics.”

“I’m not really so old.” In the state he was in, Combeferre could not hide the anxiety in his voice.

“Not now, but earlier you were just ancient. Say, I hope this has sated your appetite for botany.”

“It has not,” Combeferre said truthfully. “Though I do not think I am at risk of dropping out and abandoning you. I would like to be--” How did Mabeuf say it? It did not help that his vision was spinning at the edges. “I am going to try and be useful.”

To his surprise, he felt something wet on his cheek. Joly had given him a kiss. They looked at each other under the lamplight and began to laugh, then relinked their arms for the rest of the journey home. At the door to his building, waiting for the porter, they embraced as if it would be years before they would see one another again; they had forgotten that they had plans to meet Lesgle and Courfeyrac for breakfast. Still, it was a sentimental parting.

"You are useful and young," Joly said firmly. "I am sure you will manage to grow some excellent fruit in your old age, but first you must till the soil and set the garden in order."

"What if the plants are the ones mucking it up?" This was meant to be a complicated pun on Louis-Philippe looking like a pear, only it came out rather slurred and mangled. Joly, hardly in a state to understand even well-formed puns, looked confused and, as the porter had arrived and was rather cross, Combeferre only shrugged and waved him goodbye. 

"I will get you a potted plant," Joly called as he walked backwards into the street. 

"Better buy some fertilizer for our shared garden," Combeferre said, laughing. "We are choked with weeds and the soil is poor, but I do think we might set it right in time."

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I hope you enjoy!!! I tried to combine two prompts, though I am not sure how successfully.
> 
> Antoine Louis de Jussieu was a real person! He taught at the Jardin des Plantes and I’ve decided, with zero evidence, that he might have also taught at the medical school. He also created a system for classifying flowering plants, referenced here by Mabeuf; it is still used today! Everyone in this fic uses modern taxonomy because I couldn't be assed to figure out what specific terminology they would have used. 
> 
> _“Si Dieu le veut, un malade, rien que de toucher au sureau, se porte mieux”_ is a French folk saying that roughly translates to “God willing, the sick need only touch the elder to be cured.” 
> 
> Botany was one of the first classes a medical student took, and was popular for the reasons discussed in the fic. In this timeline, Joly is younger than Combeferre but is a year ahead of him because Combeferre couldn’t decide what he wanted to do with his life.
> 
> Combeferre chats about papyrus with Alire Raffeneau Delile, who went to Egypt with Napoleon.
> 
> Joseph-Philippe-François Deleuze was also real person and actually buds with Jussieu, though he absolutely did not have a daughter named Amaryllis. That name and a million other details are owed to Smithens, who provided so much help and encouragement and who I am so grateful for. <3


End file.
